For Laughs - Batman/Criminal Minds - Chapter 7 - 8/17
Title: For Laughs
Fandom: Batman (Nolan universe, mostly)/Criminal Minds
Links: Prologue + Chapter 1 + Chapter 2 + Chapter 3 + Chapter 4 + Chapter 5 + Chapter 6
Rating: T (overall), but ventures into M
Warnings: Joker-level violence, serial killer activities
Summary: If the BAU wants to catch the Joker, they'll need to profile the Batman. But will all of the team survive to close the case? Gen fic.
Disclaimer: I do not own Batman or any related characters in the franchise, nor do I own the television show Criminal Minds. Written for fun and sick kicks, not profit.
Chapter 7
What's Right in Front of Your Eyes
Reid adjusted the heavy headphones over his ears, frowning at the computer screen in front of him. This wasn't what he'd been told to work on, he knew, but there was something here. Something that had been bugging him over the past day. He slid the playback bar back to the beginning, watching the footage once more. It had been live on that day, the press conference busy, the crowd emotional over the clown-faced bringer of chaos claiming their city.
"Ladies and gentlemen thank you for coming…"
Reid wasn't listening. His photographic memory didn't allow for doubt. He knew every word of Dent's short speech. He knew every facial tick the young DA displayed, every moment of hesitation, doubt, resolve in the man's expressions. So, why did he feel the need to watch this again? How could he possibly be missing anything?
Leaning forward, Reid decided to focus entirely on the crowd. Eager reporters, brandishing recording devices and mikes, cops near the back, and beside them, no doubt were the sound and cameras.
"…Firstly to assure the citizens of Gotham that everything that can be done over the Joker killings is being done." Dent took a breath. "Secondly, because the Batman has offered to turn himself in…"
There is was again, Dent preparing to take the fall. Or was he? Reid frowned. Had the Batman really made contact with the DA and told him he would be giving himself over? Dent had been ready to confess before he walked to the stand, but that didn't rule out the possibility that the real Batman hadn't been just as eager to be Gotham's sacrificial lamb.
A hand touched Reid's shoulder and he jumped, automatically throwing off his headphones. Seeing J.J.'s smiling face, he blushed and paused the video.
"Sorry," J.J. said. She sat a cup of coffee beside Reid, along with a handful of sugar packets. "Figured you might need something." She bent down beside him, the scent of her hair strong. Any other time, that alone might have been enough to throw Reid off track. "Why are you watching this again?" she asked.
Reid shrugged. "I think there might be something here."
J.J. didn't look entirely convinced, but she stared at the stilled image of Harvey Dent. With a sigh, she shook her head. "I just don't get it," she muttered. The agent stood straight again, throwing one arm at the man on the screen. "Batman was responsible for the capture of dozens of criminals, why did he progress to murder here? Why did he finish with Dent and then stop?"
Reid knew she wasn't speaking to him directly, but he couldn't stop his reply. "I'm not so sure Batman did it."
J.J.'s brow wrinkled with confusion. "What do you mean, Spence?"
He cleared his throat. "I really should finish with this, J.J., before the others get back.," he excused, sliding the headphones on. He could still feel J.J.'s curious stare, but, ignored, she walked away.
Reid pressed play and watched on.
"One day, the Batman will have to answer for the laws he's broken, but to us. Not to this madman."
The audience didn't agree. Cops moved forward, not to aid but to throw out their own accusations. One officer bumped a camera man, causing him to pan the crowd with a short shuffle. Reid glanced a well-dressed figure against the wall and paused the video.
Eyes at a squint, Reid pressed play again, watching for movement from the far left as Dent told the officers beside him. "Take the Batman into custody."
A step forward.
"I am the Batman."
The figure hesitated, withdrawing. Reid paused again, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He slid the headphones off again, scrambling with the box of files where the footage's transcript was stored. But that wasn't what Reid was looking for. There was also a file of photographs from the conference, taken by journalists and officers during Dent's confession.
A camera man had been standing directly behind the well-dressed figure. He'd caught a blurred glimpse of a frustrated face looking out at the barking crowd. Not at Dent. The crowd. As if he couldn't believe how quickly the citizens had turned on the vigilante. The face belonged to Bruce Wayne.
Reid licked his bottom lip and held up the photo to the paused image on the monitor. The location was the same. It was Wayne who had stepped out, ever so slightly, toward the podium when Dent made his reveal. There was shock in the billionaire's expression, yes, but it wasn't the same as the crowd's, and it was followed by a grim expression of regret…and relief.
A faint whisper left Reid's mouth, "Batman."
Saucer lamps hung from metal piping along the pitched ceiling, one every four feet down the lengthy assembly line. The line itself, foot and a half sheets of metal counter top running along each side of a mildew dampened conveyer belt, remained littered with cardboard boxes, their colored pictures long faded and curling off. Rusted toy tractors lay on their sides, forgotten on a second belt across the factory floor. Crates clung to the building's walls, their contents untouched for decades. A vat, as fat and tall as a Weird Sister's cauldron, sat to one side with its abandoned whisk, A tower of metal molds that resembled oversized cupcake pans leaned against it. The adjacent oven was a cold piece of dead iron.
The most haunting feature of the factory, though, were the baby heads. Rubber, their pinkish and ethnic brown fleshy tones were dyed anew by years of black mold spores. The heads, the legs, the arms, littered the conveyer belt, were piled high in a cart that was no doubt intended to take the plastic pieces to their cloth bodies and voice boxes.
This was a cemetery of forgotten toys. Marcus Toys Inc. had closed in the early seventies, selling most their goods and equipment to their Chinese brother companies, but the Gotham factory had remained intact, the eldest of the Marcus heirs swearing the company would be reopened. And so it was locked up, toys dropped where they had been the day the power had been pulled, security hired to walk the grounds. Keep out bad elements.
A door was open, the cold air inside became the cold air outside. Heavy dress shoes in the form of spats slapped the floor. Purple gloved hands raised and then came together in a joyous clap. It continued, the loud applause, and was followed by a low, maniacal chuckle.
The lights flickered to life, the ones with bulbs remaining, and the belt began to move, pushing the piled toys away. Somewhere a machine attempted to stamp rubber buttocks that had never been poured into their molds.
"Well, this is just… perfect," the Joker said, his hands finally paused as his fingers clasped together, the joined fist held beneath his chin. A nine-year-old girl receiving a pony with a pink bow couldn't have looked more pleased.
And then the madman laughed until he choked on his own saliva.
It was amazing what a few hours of ingenuity and an ex-electrician lackey could do. Of course, the half dozen non-electrician lackeys had taken part, too, insuring that the seventy-year-old security officer was properly secured. Sure, give it a day or so, and someone would spot the lights, realize the old toy makers were at it again, but the Joker really didn't need more time. This, he knew, was a temporary sanctuary.
"Crank up the oven, will ya, boys, it's, ah, a bit chilly. We don't want our guest catching his death." The Joker smirked. "Yet."
No one laughed. Buzzkills. The Joker shrugged, too satisfied at the moment to consider putting a few smiles on the faces of his little elves. He was having a good day, a very good day, and he wanted it to continue. With a sweeping gesture, he pointed at the belt. "Bring him inside."
Two men with clown-faced stockings over their faces drug a body between them, its identity hidden by a canvas shopping bag over his face-- who said no one ever recycled? The Joker bounced on his toes, black-lined eyes sweeping the room. At the end of the belt he saw a glimpse of movement. It was manual, for the most part, but he realized its purpose at once when a trail of rubber dolls began to move beneath, whisked down adjacent slides. Two metal claws dove down, pressing plastic eyeballs into their hollow molds.
The Joker tapped his scar in thought and pointed at the eye press. "That looks fun."
The lackeys shared a silent glance before dragging their captive toward the machine. They pushed him against the closest toy slide, dolls moving against his back, and held him in place for their boss.
The Joker gave his victim a quick "rise and shine" in the form of a kidney shot, and jerked the sack off his head. The man beneath was middle-aged, his orange tabby-cat hair in a bowl cut, his rectangular glasses askew on his long, gaunt face. Terror was written across his face, though, somehow, the captive kept himself from screaming out.
"Doctor," the Joker began, licking his lip and looking too much like a lizard checking the temperature, "Jeremiah Arkham. Administrator of Arkham Asylum... It's, well, your lucky day, Doc, cause you've got a problem and I've… I've got a solution. A proposition."
The Joker raised a finger, motioning for a pause in thought, and reached into the inside pocket of his jacket. He dug deeper, a look of mock abashment in the hunch of his shoulders. Finally, he pulled free four razor-sharp inches of knife.
"Ah, there it is," he muttered. "Now, what was I saying? Oh, yes, a proposition, blah blah blah." The clown blinked lazily, tilting his head in the doctor's direction as if about to tell the man a secret. "The truth is, it's not really a proposition, so much as a demand," he whispered, "but I'm hoping we can both count it as a win-win learning experience."
An expression of resolve swept over Jeremiah's features. Sweat rolled down beneath his fringe of hair, but Jeremiah's expression remained cold, calculating. The fear was still present, but buried deep. "There is no need for threats," he said, his voice high, but steeled, "Tell me, what do you want from me?" He stared hard, trying not to look at the knife. "What is it you need from me, Mr. Joker?"
"That's just swell, Doc. Cause I, uh, need you to send a little message… But more on that later…" The Joker's cheek twitched. He cocked his head, distracted from the doctor, and squinted up at the skinny henchman to his right. "How tall are you?"
The lackey blinked. "Uh," he swallowed, "about 6'1"."
The Joker's smile widened, "I just love Tuesdays."
Reid leaned back, tucked one foot under his bouncing knee and chewed the cuticle of his left thumb. A folder remained on the desk before him, open, but his eyes weren't trained on it, nor was he looking at the board a few feet away. The map at his side remained untouched for the past ten minutes as well, and the computer. It had been shut down some time ago.
Gideon walked into the room with Hotch and paused at the sight, as if confused. Hotch did the same, taking a step forward, into Reid's line of sight. "Something wrong, Spencer?"
Reid didn't reply, as if he were fully intent on blooding his thumb using his teeth alone.
"Spencer!" Hotch snapped.
Reid jumped, nearly falling out of his seat and blinked up at the two men.
"Nothing," he spouted, unsure that either of the men had asked him a question.
Anxiousness welled up inside him, but he forced it down. Reid opened his mouth again, ready to call their attention to the conference pictures, but he forced the urge down. He had been so close to telling them, so close to gathering the team into the room...Then they'd received the phone call from Prentiss and Morgan.
The Batman had saved Morgan's life.
Reid had already been filled with doubt over the profile the team had given for Batman. Much of it, Reid knew, had to be truth. The right ingredients for a vigilante. But some of it…
No, Reid couldn't tell them, not until he was sure that the team knew everything there was to know on Batman. Not until Reid himself knew…
Hotch and Gideon shared a knowing glance.
"What?" Reid asked. He winced, knowing that guilt was probably written across his face. "I was just thinking. About nothing. Nothing particular. Just the case. In general."
He realized he was tapping his hands against his desk and forced himself to stop.
Gideon's brow looked as if it might meet his hairline, but before he could reply, the conference room door opened once again, an angry Morgan being soothed by a determined Prentiss. It was, unfortunately, becoming a sight the rest of the team was used to seeing.
"Glad you guys are okay," Reid noted, happy to have the attention off of him.
Morgan rolled his eyes, but not at Reid. "Of course he saved my life. He had to. It fit his profile. His needs couldn't be met if he didn't try. That doesn't make him a good guy, Emily. He was there, Zsasz was there: we don't know for sure that those two things are unrelated. There's a chance the Batman could be in on this, just like the Joker. Could be an angel of death scenario, Joker and Zsasz put people in danger, Batman rescues them, each playing their part in their sick fantasies." Realizing he was receiving silent looks of pity from the rest of the room, Morgan shook his head. "That's unlikely, I know. I'm just saying, Emily, the Batman's appearance wasn't coincidence."
Emily pursed her lips. "Of course, they're related. Batman was looking for Zsasz, Morgan! That's what he does, find bad guys. And apparently faster than we do."
Morgan's mouth snapped closed when he realized that he'd actually set himself up for that one.
Prentiss patted his shoulder. "Morgan, I'm not saying he's a good guy. He's a vigilante. I'm just saying that we might be able to use him to get to Zsasz. Obviously, he had the same information that we had, but quicker. He got there before we did, he had to have. Either there's a leak in our information or he has his own means."
"You might be right about that," Morgan agreed, "but using one unsub to catch another…"
"Is something we do on a regular basis," Emily snapped.
Reid paid little attention, as the team had already heard this conversation once, over the speakerphone nearly half an hour earlier. Instead, the young agent found himself once more circling the endless questions in his mind. As a child, and as an adult, Reid had a hard time keeping knowledge to himself. When he discovered something fascinating, he felt the need to share it with the world. But there were some secrets, like his mother's, that we could hold on to.
Reid took a breath. "The Batman is…" He choked. The team stared at him, waiting for the rest of the sentence. "…is obviously getting more sleep than we are," he finished.
Hotch nodded. "Reid's right," he said. "I've arranged for us to return to the hotel today. Security has been doubled there. The commissioner insisted we change locations but…"
"Avoiding the Joker would likely anger him, cause him to become more violent if he plans on sending us another message," Gideon concluded.
"I'd prefer we go in shifts," Hotch picked up, "but, at the moment, that might not be possible. I suggest you all get some sleep. Detective Stephens will cover the department and keep us updated of any new information."
Morgan opened his mouth to protest, and Hotch raised a warning brow. "Derek," he said, "officially, you should be in a hospital right now. Do you really want to question me?"
Morgan's mouth closed tight.
"What about you?" Prentiss asked.
Hotch avoided her eye. "I took an hour on the break room sofa while you were gone. J.J.'s busy trying to keep the connection between Victor and the Joker out of the news. She has a few phone calls to finish up. We'll meet you at the hotel later and possibly switch out, if the need arises."
Reid had already pulled his coat free and slipped it over his lank form. He hoped his slight of hand had served him well in pocketing the folded picture of Bruce Wayne. "Sounds good to me. I'm beat," he excused, slipping past the group, and out the door.
Morgan turned, staring after the unusually quiet young agent. "What was that about?"
READ CHAPTER 8